


Half of a Life

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1701626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an incarnation of the Doctor is replaced, his soul travels to a place called the Graveyard of Heroes. There, heroes who have perished (or, in the Doctor's case, been replaced) dwell. There, they live a new life.</p>
<p>Just outside of the walls of the Graveyard is the gaping emptiness of the Void. If someone in the Graveyard dies a second time, their soul is eaten by the Void. </p>
<p>The Ninth Doctor is awfully close to that fate. Unknown to anyone but its owner, there is a drug that can help him. Does its owner know how much power she has?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Void

**Author's Note:**

> This fan fiction is based on the BBC television show "Doctor Who". 
> 
> Even though Rose is present in this tale, the relationship between her and the Ninth Doctor (and eventually the Tenth) is not a main focus point in this story. 
> 
> The bodies of the Fourth, Ninth, and Tenth Doctors are present here, and they all have names -- Tom, Christopher, and David, respectively. If you haven't figured it out, the names aren't actually that creative -- they're the names of the respective actors (Tom Baker, Christopher Eccleston, and David Tennant). It does make sense, though, since the Doctor, no matter what form he's in, is fond of Earth.
> 
> Now for the time! Oh, what fun! Anyway, this story starts on the fateful day of the Ninth Doctor's regeneration -- I trust all of my readers have watched that episode (Season 1, Episode 13 on Netflix). In any case, the Master isn't dead yet, which is why I include him in a couple of short references. We all know that his situation is INSANELY complicated. I'm not even going to try to look up exactly when he dies, because I guarantee you that I'll be wrong. Just deal with it, and remember that John Simm is AMAZING, as are Christopher Eccleston, Tom Baker, and David Tennant.
> 
> Lastly, the mention of Shada can't be traced to any particular episode. That's because the script was written by the AMAZING Douglas Adams, but was never aired. Instead, the writer Gareth Roberts (who wrote a few episodes himself) transformed the script into a book. Look it up. I assure you that you won't regret it.
> 
> This note is here to ensure that there is as little confusion about the circumstances in this story as is possible. Of course, you could also skip right over this and then be a bit confused once you got into the story a little bit.
> 
> Enjoy, my fellow Whovians!

_A void. The Void. A dark hole of night. Down, down, down. So much pain. You must think about other things. Just stay steady. Breathe. Ignore everything. The pain, the anguish. Forget it. Come on. Breathe. Calm. Don't focus on this. You know what is going on. You know that you're going to die. You know that you already have. This is just the journey, and it is only the start of a long and winding road. You must stay calm for this. Otherwise, the Void is going to eat your fear and thrive on it. If the Void thrives, it can get strong enough to take you. It can take you from your route and away from the Graveyard. You won't ever make it there. The Graveyard is your goal. Make it to the Graveyard. There, they can tend to you, and you might recover._

The Doctor's thoughts mostly circled around his mind in this sequence, sometimes tracing lazy curlicues and rebounding before the circle was developed completely. He kept his eyes closed, knowing that around him was only the pit of pitch that was Void. It was boring, to say the least. The sounds tended to be intriguing -- the rushing of wind past his ears, the crackling sound of his leather jacket at the mercy of those winds -- while there was nothing to regard in a visual sense. He wasn't sure if he was descending or going in another direction. It felt to him that he was going down, but in the Void, there wasn't a way to determine if he was right.

He was in a lot of pain. It was surely more than he had gone through while he was alive. The term "while he was alive" wasn't entirely true. The Doctor was alive. He was just not alive in the mainstream sense of the word. And it wasn't just him. Those who came before him -- the previous versions of him -- lived. They lived in the Graveyard of Heroes.

The Graveyard was an enigma. It was rumored by some cultures, known by others, and completely unsuspected by most. The Doctor's culture was one of those which knew of the existence and purpose of the Graveyard. He felt quite honored that he was even going there, though it meant this trip through the Void. The Graveyard was reserved for those who had saved their race, or another. It was a place for heroes to go after they had laid down their laurels for others to rest upon. Even those cultures which ignored it or didn't know about it had at least one member there.

He felt weak. The pain surged through his body, leaving him the equivalent of a baby in terms of strength. He wasn't particularly fond of that sensation. It was one of impotency and of vulnerability. He had definitely had enough of that in his past, and was more than ready to leave that behind. Wryly, he figured that his pain in this life was the equivalent of his impotency in his past life. Rose would certainly argue, and say that he was not impotent, and never was, but she was Rose, and the Doctor knew the sad and painful truth.

Rose would likely also say that his pain was her fault. This, to the Doctor, was untrue. He had sacrificed himself, and that was his choice. She had taken in the Time Vortex -- there wasn't another way to save her. He'd had to take it. At the time, he'd felt like a child swiping candy when he had taken the enormous power that the Time Vortex had given to her. Power was, he conjectured, to adults what chocolate and other candy was to children. He imagined making a candy, naming it "Power", and promoting it to "Power-Hungry" (bad sales pitch, he knew) magnates. It would likely be a relatively lucrative pursuit. Not that the Doctor had to have money. He had his psychic paper! And he was perfectly joyful without money, whether it be pounds, euros, Altarian dollars, wampum, or anything of that sort. Money, to him, was the death of joy. Joy shouldn't have to die.

Thinking about potential products and bad sales pitches at the very least kept the Doctor's mind away from his pain. It was like it forgot to focus on it, which was fine by him. One thing he couldn't stop focusing on, though, was the fact that his journey through the dark should probably already have ended. It had gone on for what felt like hours, but who was he to judge? For what he knew, there could be a time-lock over the Void, like there was over Shada. He was the only Time Lord left alive who knew about that, he thought. The Doctor was relatively sure that the Master hadn't taken any part in his fourth incarnation's escapade to the prison of the Time Lords. Skagra had, but he wasn't a Time Lord; that young Time Lady, who so often trailed along, had, but he was relatively sure that she was dead; that man from the university in Cambridge had; and Salyavin had, in the body of Chronotis. What had become of Chronotis? The Doctor figured that it wasn't his place to wonder about things like that.

An impact flung the Doctor's body like a child flings a plush toy when he or she is angry. Any breath that had taken residence in his lungs was swiftly knocked out, and he was left gasping for air like an exhausted marathoner. Except that marathoners were trained not to get that exhausted. The Doctor presently realized that he did not have time to consider the comparison, as he was taken firmly by both arms.

The Doctor valiantly fought to stand, swaying when he got himself upright. Whoever was taking him was taking him backwards, so the Doctor tried his best to turn his head and midsection so that he had a slightly more optimistic potential of being able to view where he was going and who was taking him there.

His abductor was clothed in white, and wore a white cap. The whole ensemble was positively blinding. The Doctor noted that the person was female, and then it hit him. The person was a White Woman, one of the many varieties of interplanetary and interspecies nurses. They had more satisfactory training than the cat-nurses of New Earth, and were trained to treat more species. The White Women swore in a sort of oath at a shady-sounding induction ceremony that they would never refuse aid to anyone, and would never wear any colour but white -- at least on their outer garments. Sure enough, this one was also wearing white athletic shoes.

The Doctor relaxed, and let the White Woman drag him along. In a few minutes, they came to a stop in front of a large white building with a red plus-sign emblazoned upon it above its entryway.

The White Woman turned. "Who are you?" she asked, releasing her grip on his arms and drawing a white legal pad and a white pen from a large pocket on her pants. The Doctor hoped that the pen didn't write in white ink.

"I am the Doctor."

She wrote that on the pad. "Which incarnation?"

"Ninth."

"Name?"

The Doctor hesitated. Each incarnation had to take a name once he came to the Graveyard, and the Doctor had neglected to think of one. He was tempted to say that his name was Rose, and then request a transgender operation, but he knew that course of action would be ridiculous. After a long moment's deliberation, he said, "Christopher." He felt quite comfortable with the name.

"Christopher, how did you . . . Die?"

"I absorbed the Time Vortex from a human to save her life."

The White Woman gaped at him. "You must have serious damage."

"To a heart."

"Come on!" she said, her voice panicked. She didn't grab his arm this time; instead, she beckoned him forward. He trailed her like a desperate stray dog down blinding white aisles, past other White Women, some pushing white gurneys and others toting white cases that Christopher knew held the various surgical implements whose usages the White Women often employed.

"Lay down, Christopher, and relax." He hadn't paid any notice to what was around him, but he realized that he and the White Woman had entered a chamber in the hospital. He did exactly what he was told; he knew inside that it would help him.

The flimsy blanket on the bed barely went up to his chest, but Christopher didn't mind. He cast the blanket from the bed, and it landed in a crinkly heap in the corner right in front of the curtain. He was so hot. He even shed his leather jacket, reaching over and hanging it with care on a chair. His remaining functional heart was working overtime, trying to make up for his other heart and itself.

 


	2. A Betelgeusian White Woman

A different White Woman (this one had strands of brilliant red hair which were in the process of escaping from beneath her cap) entered the room.

"I know that you've already removed your jacket, but I'm going to have to ask you to take off your shirt as well."

Christopher sighed. At least beneath his tight black shirt, he had some serious abs from his stint as a soldier -- the worst, and yet the most physically beneficial, time of his life. He took it off slowly and gingerly, trying not to move his midsection around too much.

This White Woman was younger and much less terse than the first one had been. "My name is Angeline. I'm from --"

"Betelgeuse," Christopher cut in.

Angeline had been rubbing ultrasound balm on Christopher's chest, but she paused. "How did you know that?"

"Your complexion doesn't match your hair colour, but it's not unnatural. Red hair is also very common among Betelgeusians. It's a small amount of information, but it was obviously enough."

"Gallifreyans know their stuff."

"Time Lords know their stuff."

Angeline clearly didn't have a reply to that, because she resumed her monotonous task. Eventually, she stood and crossed the room to wash her hands.

She came back and pressed two buttons -- one to power up the ultrasound machine, and the other to turn on a monitor. "This makes it easier to see what damage you sustained," she said, but the words were so quiet that Christopher wondered whether she was speaking to him or to herself.

Christopher closed his eyes when she picked up the ultrasound wand. He didn't want to see what had happened to his heart, and Angeline's gasp confirmed that desire's credibility.

"Christopher . . . It's a wonder you're still with us."

"I know."

Angeline didn't reply; she was thinking. There was nothing in the universe that could help Christopher. He was going to die, and his soul would be sucked in by the Void into its gaping maw.

She filled an IV bag with morphine from a bottle. The least she could do was ease his pain before he passed away. His left heart had sustained irreversible damage, so she would have to put in an IV circulatory system. The surgery required to do a heart transplant was impossible for a Time Lord, especially since it was the stronger and larger left heart that had been damaged.

"Christopher, please don't make any erratic movements. That'll dislodge the IVs I'm about to hook up. Tell me when you're getting woozy -- because that won't be the morphine, that would be the failing of the artificial circulatory system."

"Oh, yeah. Well, morphine makes you woozy --"

"Not the small dose I'm having drip into you. It'll just ease the pain. These three needles are your lifeline. There's nothing else I can do for you."

Christopher sighed. He'd known that all was lost when he felt the pain lance through his chest. Then he'd felt his next form coming through, thoughts and all, and had known in absolute surety that he had nothing left to lose.

Now, all that he had left to lose was his life, and it was about to slip from his grasp and fall into the Void.

He felt the morphine surge through his veins, and shuddered slightly. It was cold and refreshing, like ice water. There was a heightened sensation of internal movement. "Angeline, that wasn't morphine, was it?"

Angeline hesitated. "It was," she said. "It's mixed with a stimulant. I can't let you sleep. I'm sorry."

"You gave me morphine, and then another drug designed to counteract one of the effects of it!" Christopher laughed weakly, but it dissolved into a bout of racking coughs that caused his thin frame to shake uncontrollably.

"I did. It's healthier for you."

"Oh, so it's suddenly healthy to deprive someone of sleep?"

"Twenty-first century medical journals are full of it. I would think that you, of all beings in the universe, would know this."

Christopher shrugged. "Can I see someone? I will fall asleep out of boredom."

"Sure. Anyone in particular?"

Christopher searched through his mind for the name that his fourth incarnation had taken. "Tom."

"Interesting choice. I'll have to part him from his girlfriend, though. That might be a trifle difficult. Oh, and who do I tell him is calling? He won't know the name you've taken."

"Tell Tom that a Time Lord who calls himself the Martyr wants him." Christopher couldn't help himself; he simply had to insert a macabre touch into the situation. It wasn't every day that a Time Lord was about to die.

Angeline shook her head in faked exasperation, then walked out of the room.


	3. Sacrifice

"You're wanted, Tom."

"Am I?" The Time Lord grinned in his infectious manner, and released the waist of his girlfriend from his arm.

"Yes. The Martyr wants you." Angeline had to stop herself both from cringing and from laughing as she said the words.

"Who is the Martyr?"

"A Time Lord who fought his last battle just today."

"Ah! A bygone incarnation, just like I am!"

"Exactly. Come now, Tom, before he dies again."

That stopped Tom in his tracks. He'd begun to walk when Angeline had begun to reply to him, but stopped now, paling noticeably while his eyes widened ever so slightly. "How close is he?" he asked, his voice a strained whisper -- a sharp contrast from his usual loud joviality.

"Close." Angeline blinked back tears that she had never known were coming until the instant they pricked the back of her eyes.

Tom didn't respond; he took off running in the direction of the hospital building, and that was reply enough.

-

"You look horrible."

Christopher smiled weakly. The meaning of Tom's comment was far from lost on him. He knew that he was pale, and he knew that his sickly complexion made him look like a corpse. "That's saying it nicely, Tom. I don't even get a proper introduction?"

"You already know who I am, so why bother? Admittedly, I have no idea who you are, though, so please . . ." Tom trailed off, as he was pretty sure that Christopher would know what he was alluding to.

"I'm Christopher."

"I mean --"

"Tom, I know perfectly well what you mean. I'm the latest spent incarnation of the Doctor."

"What did you mean when you called yourself the Martyr, then?"

"It was a joke. I sacrificed myself for a human, so . . ."

"Ah. So how do you know about me?"

Christopher, though severely weak, managed to smile. "My friend, everybody knows about Shada."

Tom smiled as well. "I hadn't thought about that," he admitted, flipping his ridiculously long, multicolored scarf over his shoulder.

"I thought you were an intelligent person! Don't tell me that I'm wrong."

Tom faked an expression of surprise. "Me? I would never dare to tell you that you were in the wrong, dear sir."

After staring expressionlessly at one another for a moment, both of them began to laugh. After this exchange, Angeline left the room. No doubt she was wondering about the sanity that Tom and Christopher possessed.

Christopher's laughter again dissolved into deep, rattling coughs. He seemed to convulse on the bed, a flopping, oxygen-deprived fish. Tom stood by the bed with tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Don't be." Christopher's voice was a weak whisper, as weak as he appeared.

"Too bad."

"Tom, I know that I'm changing the subject, but I need your help."

"Okay. I'll help you."

"You might die again."

Tom shrugged. "Okay."

"I need you . . ." Christopher had to pause to let the magnitude of what he was about to say sink in. "I need you to find a child for me. My child."


	4. "Brilliant! Just Brilliant!"

"What the _hell_?!" Tom cried, backing away from Christopher as if he was a Dalek screaming "EXTERMINATE!"

Christopher laughed again, rocking back and forth as he did so. He didn't altogether look to be sane. After the subsequent coughing fit passed, he grinned. "Oh, I knew I'd like your reaction."

"Did you do that without any reason?"

"Not entirely. I adopted a daughter, though, a hundred years ago. And she's not human, so she's still alive, unless someone figured out that she basically knows what I know."

"What is she? And what's her name?"

"She's a Wido, as far as I've been able to determine."

"They're extinct!"

"Yeah. Thala was a little bit special."

"Thala. In their language, that means . . ." Tom trailed off, uncertain.

"It means 'broken'. And I didn't name her. When I adopted her, it was too late in her life for me to change her name and too early for her to choose her own. I need you to find her, Tom. And I need you to do something that isn't at all possible."

"If it isn't at all possible -- it's impossible! Excellent! Brilliant! Just brilliant! What do you need me to do, Chris?"

"'Chris'? Really?"

"Yes. Only that one time, though, Christopher. Just tell me what I need to do."

"There's a good Time Lord. I need you to find her, and then I need you to get her to the TARDIS. I can send a mental message to the current Doctor if you can stop the morphine from flowing. I need her to die."

"And to die in honour, so that she can come here."

What Christopher had said last, if overheard, would likely cause great alarm. However, Tom knew exactly what the stricken Time Lord meant.

"Exactly. I don't care about the pain; I want Thala back. No one's taking care of her. No one. I was the only one she had. Please do this for me, Tom. Just take out this needle, and then you need to get out of here before anyone suspects a thing."

Tom's hands shook as he flipped a switch on a machine, cutting off the flow of the stimulant-laced morphine. He carefully took the needle from Christopher's arm and bandaged him, though the needle-prick was so small that it probably wasn't needed. Christopher's teeth, he noticed, were already clenched with the enormous pain.

He cried out, and Tom saw tears flowing freely down his cheeks. The cry lasted forever, and Tom counted it as luck when Angeline didn't enter. Actually, it was just excellent soundproofing.

"Oh, that didn't feel good at all," Christopher muttered after an agonizing silence. "I think . . . I think I've got the pain under control now. Okay . . ." He closed his eyes tightly, and his lips moved ever so slightly as he composed his message to the current Doctor. Tom watched him, transfixed.

-

_Doctor. Let me through, Doctor, please. Please let me through._

_Who the_ hell _are you?_ the Doctor replied, the tone in his thought rather brusque. _I can't help you right now, whoever you are._

 _I know_ , Christopher said, his tone gentle. _I'm just asking you a favor. Actually, two favors. For later._

Christopher could almost hear the Doctor sigh. _Fine. Ask away._

 _First, tell Rose that I'm okay when you wake up. Please._ That was a lie, but he couldn't care less. He just wanted a sort of connection to go through to her.

_That's her name? I saw her for five seconds, and then . . . Well, you know what happens from there._

Christopher couldn't help but laugh, but he didn't cough. His laughter was silent. _I'm glad you've figured out who I am. And you certainly amuse me, Doctor. I think she'll like you. The second favor I have to ask you is of considerably greater importance._

_I said "ask away". What did you think I meant?_

_Well, you're obstinate. On second thought . . . Okay, I'm not going to go there. Please, though, I'm asking you to make a journey to the planet Padra once you're awake and out of trouble. When you're there, a man wearing a brown fedora and a multicolored scarf is going to bring a child to you. I need you to put the girl in a battle, because I need her to die. I need her with me._

_Any reason?_

_I'm her adoptive father. And I'm in the Graveyard. You see why you can't just stab her -- why she has to die an honourable death?_

_Yes_ , the Doctor said grudgingly. _How much time do I have?_

_Quite a bit, I hope._

_What do you mean, you hope?_

_I'm sort of half-dead._

_Ah, my predecessor . . . Live, then. For as long as is possible. So that you can care for your daughter._

_She's a Wido, just to let you know. Don't freak out._

What?!

_You didn't pay attention to that last part, did you?_

_Not really, no. But you have got to be kidding me._

_I'm --_

-

The connection between the Doctor's mind and Christopher's mind shattered abruptly. The Doctor tossed in his sleep, and Rose saw the movement.

"Doctor?"

There was not a response. The Doctor still slept, but his expression was twisted with what seemed to be pain.

"Doctor?"

Still nothing.

It felt unnatural to Rose to call this man "Doctor". It seemed wrong. He seemed to be more strongly affected by vanity, and more narcissistic, though that was a sketchy judgment of his character, as he hadn't been conscious for very long after he'd changed.

           

-

The Doctor's mind seemed to toss and turn along with his body, restless in its emotional turmoil.

 _Hello? Are you still there? Are you all right?_ he asked. He admitted to himself that he was worried

He didn't get a response, either.


	5. Another TARDIS

Christopher gasped, and after that, his breathing was labored.

"Are you okay?" Tom asked.

"Yeah. Wait -- you idiot, I told you to leave!" He paused. "Never mind . . . I can't send you until he's awake. He's not, as of this moment in time, the strange, ever-changing beast it is.

"He must think that I'm dead."

"Why's that?" Tom asked, cocking his head.

"I had to break off in the middle of a sentence. I was too weak to continue. Effectively, I broke contact."

"Ah."

Christopher didn't reply -- he wasn't in a position to, even if he'd thought one up. He had already closed his eyes.

 _Hello_?

 _I thought you died_! the Doctor exclaimed. _She's trying to wake me. Something's going on. I'm going to have to wake up early. Will that kill me_?

 _No_.

 _Good. When I'm done, I'll go to Padra, all right_?

_I'll send my friend there. I can't thank you enough._

_You know, I sort of want to die, just a little._

_Why_?

_So that our conversations would be longer. You intrigue me._

_I'm likely the only person who might be your parallel; it's no wonder._ Christopher imagined the Doctor rolling his eyes. It wasn't too difficult.

_I have to wake up._

The connection broke, but only because the Doctor had dismissed it. Immediately afterwards, Christopher reopened his eyes and said, "Tom, organise passage to Padra. You're going to need the extra time the Doctor's apparent diversion provides you to find her."

Tom spun around and sprinted from the room in search of the Graveyard's resident TARDIS. He went searching for quite a while, as it wasn't the blue police box he was used to. _Too used to_ , he thought, thinking fragmentarily as was his ordinary habit.

Eventually, he found it. It was an office cubicle, slightly different from the others in the hospital. And it wasn't in the cubicle; it was the cubicle itself. He'd gone outside of the hospital to look, but decided that it would likely be in a place where few people thought of going.

Tom slid into the black leather chair that was situated at the desk and pressed the power button on the computer. He pressed it four times, registering with the machine who he was. It fired up noisily, and with a bright blue-and-white light display. Tom sighed, hoping that he wouldn't be found out.

Once the machine booted up entirely, Tom pressed a few keys on the keyboard, spelling _P-A-D-R-A_ , and then _A-T-A-L-A-N-T-I-A_ when it was asked for. The computer then called up a display on the monitor, asking a seemingly simple, but entirely too deceptive, question. " _Time_?"

Thankfully, Tom knew the answer to that one, though he was tempted to go back (or forward) a little just for the hell of it, but he pressed the _SHIFT_ key, pointing to the present on this device.

The TARDIS groaned a little as it made its first excursion in what Tom was sure basically amounted to a time equivalent to forever. He felt as if he was on a rollercoaster ride as his stomach dropped. The TARDIS bucked and spun as it whirled through space without hurtling through time.

It settled after a terrifically turbulent ride, leaving Tom with a note of pale and sickly green backing his usually bright and cheerful complexion. All in all, Tom decided that he wasn't overly fond of travelling in an old, barely used TARDIS.

He staggered out of the office cube, which had conveniently landed in a shadowy forest. That was very good for Tom, who didn't exactly want to be discovered for who he was. Padrans weren't fond of Time Lords; they hadn't been since a few of the latter accidentally caused a massive explosion under the ocean and triggered an enormous tidal wave some thousands of years ago.

Walking a few paces led Tom to emerge from the woods. Ahead lay a city, its glass and metal towers glistening in the light of four suns. Four colors of light illuminated all of Padra for twenty hours of its forty-hour day without any variation; they were the yellow sun called Sol, the white one called Purity, the red one called Warfare, and the green one called Eco.

Mind you, the names described up there are the English translations. The original language they were named in might surprise you.

The sign outside of the city, written in Old Gallifreyan despite the issue described three paragraphs ago, read _ATALANTIA_. (Now do you know what language the four suns were named in?)

Tom sighed in relief; the TARDIS had landed him where he'd asked it to. Atalantia was the city where Christopher had found Thala. Taking a deep breath, Tom walked into the city, prepared to be jumped by a gang of Padrans with bio-scanners. But there were only a few Padrans milling around the nearly paved streets, and none of them even bothered to glance at him.

Walking on, Tom came to the central square, where a marvelous sight took his breath away.


	6. "The Little Girl"

In the square, several Padrans of indeterminate age were clapping and singing an old song. In English, it doesn't rhyme, nor does it have equal syllable counts or anything reminiscent of rhythm, but that's English.

The song, in English, is called "The Little Girl".

 

_The little girl dances in the market square_

_She leaves us happy at the end of the day_

_At a time when things are slow_

__

_The little girl is beautiful_

_She shows us what beauty is_

_The little girl's heart is good and kind_

_She is not struck by corruption_

__

_And the little girl puts on a show_

_Every night for everyone here_

_We see it as a stroke of fortuitous luck_

_The little girl is our joy and our hope_

__

_The little girl dances in the market square_

_She leaves us happy at the end of the day_

_At a time when things are slow_

__

_She is the purest being there can be_

_We love her, and she knows she is loved_

_She is the little girl who dances_

_We do not know who she is, but we do not care_

__

The song repeats for as long as the singers deem neccessary, and by the strain that was clearly audible in these voices, Tom deduced that the singers had been at it for quite a while.

It wasn't the singers, though, that appeared to be marvelous. They sounded wonderful, but the song they sung was only secondary to the spectacle unfolding within their semicircle.

A little girl was dancing, constantly spinning and moving in patterns so complex that even mathematics couldn't fully predict or decipher them. She wore a jade-colored dress, and her hair was dark brown and perfectly straight. She was small, but danced as if she had centuries of experience. And if she was who Tom thought she was, she might well have at least a century's practice. And she might be the little girl described in the song.

Tom carefully stepped in behind the singers, and began to clap and sing. He knew that he wouldn't be able to remain silent; it wasn't quite enough for him to simply watch. If he was going to involve himself in something, he might as well plunge himself in it. And when he plunged into something, he preferred to immerse as many senses as was possible in the experience.

The little girl made a rotation which caused her to face her audience, and she very nearly tripped when she saw Tom. Her eyes widened slightly and her head cocked to one side for an instant before she whipped around again.

A moment later, Tom's words faltered as he felt a new presence enter his mind.

_Who are you?_

_I can tell you what I am, but I can't tell you anything of great importance until we're alone,_ he replied.

The little girl sighed in her thoughts, and Tom was sure that he'd heard her sigh outside of his mind as well. _So, what are you? Judging by the fact that you can communicate with me, I'd say Wido or Time Lord, but you can't be either. There aren't any more Wido -- besides me, of course -- and the only Time Lord left, besides the Master -- and you don't look like him, unless he regenerated in the last century -- is my adoptive father. I say 'adoptive' only for the sake of formality._

Tom didn't reply. He cut off the connection with a meaningful glance into Thala's blue-grey eyes when she turned again. She nodded begrudgingly in response.

As soon as he was sure that Thala wouldn't hear him, Tom contacted Christopher.

_Christopher, I found her. She engineered herself to look like a feminine version of you._

_Christopher chuckled in his thoughts a moment later. She did that a long time ago. She also hated using the term 'adoptive father' to refer to me . . . She only did that for the sake of formality and understanding._

_She told me that. She's dancing in a square. It seems to be a free performance. I'm trying to sing and hold a rhythm here._

_If you expand your reach, I might be able to hear it. I'd love to hear music. Oh, and Tom?_

_Yes?_

_When it comes to Thala, nothing is ever free._

Tom made himself expand his reach. It felt like he was releasing his hold on something that was always intangible anyway, and that was not a sensation which he enjoyed very much.

Christopher's happy sigh was clearly audible, and Tom could visualise his contented smile. Tom waited for the former to speak, but he remained silent in his well-deserved bliss.

 


	7. Basically the Same

Before long, Thala ceased to dance and bowed. The four suns were beginning to set; Padra moved around them much like Earth revolves around its Sun. However, Padra revolves more slowly.

Tom walked away from the square and leaned against the wall of a random building, picking at his fingernails. He didn't want to make it too obvious that he needed to meet Thala.

-

After their mental conversation, Thala understood what Tom's placement meant. She approached Tom from the opposite side as the one he'd been scrutinising, changing herself as she walked.

Wido are shape-shifters, not to mention amazing with telepathy. Thala's true form was just a breath of faded jade green wind, but she liked to have substance. For her adoptive -- she didn't like that, but for formalities, it had to be used -- father, she liked to change herself into a little girl with perfectly straight, dark brown hair and blue-grey eyes. She wanted to avoid suspicion by looking like him -- and at the same time, she wanted to say that she loved him, but in a silent and somehow more meaningful way.

Now, though, she made herself appear to be a woman instead of a girl. She still looked basically the same, but her features were more angular, her hair was longer, and (of course) her figure was that of a woman's.

"Who are you?" she asked, eliciting a small gasp from the man leaning against the wall. His crazy multicolored scarf flapped in the wind, and a fedora just barely managed to balance on a head of out-of-control brown curls.

"Ah, Thala," he said, adding on a relieved chuckle at the end. "Hello. I'm Tom -- I'm a friend of your father's." He inhaled deeply, as if preparing himself for delivering something important. Seeing that, Thala exhaled, attempting to relax herself before her crazy mind took the situation out of the grasp of even the most eccentric imagination.

"Thank you." She couldn't really think of anything to say, which was a new situation which she found that she very much despised. In a blink of an eye -- or in a synchronized beat of two hearts, which Thala very much preferred -- her instincts flooded back to her. "Who the hell are you -- actually, no; what the hell are you -- why are you here, and how do I know whether you're my father's friend -- as you say -- or his greatest enemy?" She stood with her arms crossed, waiting for the answers she desired.

The man smiled slightly, one eyebrow ratcheting up to a height Thala had previously thought to be impossible -- for eyebrows, that is. "You can call me Tom, Thala. Don't expect to associate my name and my face with anything, though. Your father never told you about me -- hell, he didn't know that I still existed, or even could exist."

Thala's face was now in an elaborate contortion of confusion.

Tom laughed now, his eyebrow still comprising the peak of Mount Everest -- minus the snow, of course, as Tom hadn't gone grey. "Thala, as hard as this might be for you to wrap your mind around -- hold on. I need to ask you some questions so that I can determine just how much you know."

Thala sighed. She had wanted to be the interviewer, rather than the interviewee, but she hoped that she could change positions later on. "Ask away, Tom. I don't trust you, though -- that name sounds fake."

"It is. It's a pseudonym.

"Did your father ever explain to you the concept of regeneration?"

"Yes." That was common knowledge in any civilization which had any knowledge of the Time Lords.

"Did he ever tell you about the Graveyard of Heroes?"

Thala frowned. She'd never heard about such a place -- not that she always paid attention to her father's tremendous monologues. Maybe seventy-five percent of the time -- no, make that seventy. _Enough thinking of Father_ , she thought, reprimanding herself.

"I'll assume that you haven't, if I'm to go by the expression on your pretty face."

Thala easily shrugged off the possibility that Tom was hitting on her, and cocked her head, ready to listen.

Tom inhaled deeply, just as he had earlier. Thala had a bad feeling that he was going to launch into a very, very long educational speech, but that feeling would be assuaged presently.

"The Graveyard of Heroes is true to its name. Any who die in honour are conveyed there through the Void -- I'm not even going to ask if you know about that. I bet you've even travelled through it."

"No, I haven't. Father deemed those trips dangerous, and wouldn't let me come with him."

"They are dangerous. Now, I've gotten myself through there and to the Graveyard, hard as that is to believe. Yes, sweetheart, I'm dead. But that's not the half of it.

"So is your father."

Thala's eyes widened in rage. Before she could even think consciously, she swung out and landed a wicked punch just below Tom's right eye. "Thala!" he shouted, wincing in pain. "Thala. Look, it's okay."

"How can it be okay?!" she screamed. "You're telling me that my father is _dead_ , and that's _okay_?!"

Tom rested his head in one hand. "No, I'm not. What I'm going to tell you is this . . . _You can still see him. You can still see your father_."


	8. "A Sad Excuse for a Time Lord" (Or, the Chapter in Which Thala Proves Herself to be a BAMF Who Doesn't Take Any Crap)

"What the hell do you mean?" Thala had calmed herself, and was now ashamed and embarrassed by her outburst.

She shouldn't have felt too bad. Tom had somehow procured an ice-pack from the depths of one of his numerous coat pockets, and had placed it just below his eye, securing it with a bit of mysteriously-appearing duct tape.

"Well, you missed the significance of the fact that even though I've really died, I'm still here. And obviously, I'm still tangible, as you so sufficiently displayed when you punched me.

"Once someone gets to the Graveyard, they get a copy of their old body. The only catch is that the copy retains any illness or injury that might have brought them to their death."

"Was Father hurt? Or did he get sick?"

"He got hurt. Badly." Tom winced, and Thala couldn't tell if he was expressing sympathy for her father or simply his own general pain.

"So he can't come here? Like you can?"

"No. He's too weak to sit up, let alone travel like this."

"What did he do?" Thala moaned.

"You know, he never explained it fully. But it does involve a sacrifice. He tricked me by calling himself the Martyr when he asked for me through a messenger."

"How do I get to him?" She bit her lip. _I'm asking too many questions._

Tom didn't seem to mind. He also seemed to love to talk. "Well, first, you have to be like us."

"I have to die." It wasn't a question; rather, it was an affirmation of the fate she was set to meet.

"Yes. And in honour. Unfortunately, I'm not the one who's going to lead you to your death. I think you trust me, but you're going to have to trust the new Doctor. According to your father, he's a relatively nice man, but he can be snarky."

"That's fine. When do I expect him?"

"I don't know."

-

A month later, Thala was dancing in the square when she heard the sound of the TARDIS. Finishing the last few steps, she bowed, and ran.

In a back alley, the TARDIS was materializing, and she barely waited for it to become solid before lifting a thin silver chain from around her neck. She rubbed the key between her thumb and forefinger for a moment, and then fitted it into the lock. Or tried to. Transforming into a woman yet again, Thala cursed heavily. "You changed the locks! What is wrong with you?!"

She was forced to step back quickly as a dashing younger man opened the door of the TARDIS with a showy flourish. A blonde woman stood behind him. She looked a little harried, but she still put on a smile. "Hi," the Doctor said, grinning broadly.

"Hello. I hope you know what expectations and reputations you have to live up to." Thala's tone was scathing. She hadn't really realized how angry she was until that moment.

The Doctor's face fell. "I'm sorry, Thala. I really am. Your adoptive father was -- and still is -- an excellent Time Lord. Humans need examples like that."

Thala scowled slightly, and the blonde girl slapped him. "You idiot," she hissed. "You forgot."

Wincing, the Doctor stepped back, allowing Thala to enter the TARDIS. "The best thing I can say about you at the moment is that you agreed to help my _father_ get me back to him," she said. "The second-best thing about you that I can tell is that you didn't do anything else to this machine. You've already done enough damage -- don't go around making the worlds implode, or anything else for that matter."

The reply to Thala's deliverance was not issued by the Doctor -- who was quite speechless, which was a rare incapacitation for him -- but by the young woman who seemed to be his current companion. "I'm Rose."

"Hi."

"Would you come here for a moment, Thala? Actually -- where's the most private place in the TARDIS? I really don't know it that well."

Thala smiled, glad to have some control. She led the way to her own room.

"What is it you'd like to speak with me about, Rose?"

Rose took a deep breath. "God, I didn't realize . . . I was told you were just a child."

"I'm a shape-shifter. Cursing has more credibility when you look older. Here." Thala turned around. She wasn't fond of shifting right in front of others.

"Wow," Rose said. "That's . . . that's bloody amazing!"

Turning again, Thala smiled. "It's just what I do." _And I also deal in mental contact._

Rose yelped when the message conveyed itself to her brain. "That was creepy," she said, her voice hushed a little. "I wanted to say that I'm sorry, Thala. I am. This is all my fault."

"What is?"

"That your father died. We were going to come for you -- that had been his plan, and he was so happy about it. He was like a lunatic, he was so happy and so excited . . . And then the bastard -- excuse me; I think that was the only time he ever deserved the name, if he ever did -- sacrificed himself. For me. I still don't understand why the hell he did that."

Thala pondered that for a moment. _So that was the sacrifice Tom told me about_. "He must have loved you. Of course, once he gets attached to someone, he never lets them go. I can imagine why he saved you at his own expense." Her voice caught, and Thala angrily blinked back the tears that were beginning to collect in her eyes.

"I'm so sorry."

"He died doing what he loved to do." Thala was partly saying this because she wanted to appear strong, and partly because it was true. She was sure that if she said anything else, she would either burst into tears or injustice her father.

"Excuse me?" Rose looked puzzled; from this reaction, Thala judged that she hadn't been around her father for a long time. Maybe only a few months. Though she'd never learn it, Thala thought in fragments just like Tom did.

"He lived for the gratitude he got for saving people's lives. He lived for it. Apparently, he died for it as well."

Nodding, Rose beckoned Thala out of the room, and they walked back to the main chamber of the TARDIS.

"What were you two doing? Gossiping?" the Doctor asked. His tone of voice was hurt, and seemed tinged with jealousy. But he snapped out of it quickly, adopting a stern manner. "We don't have time for gossip; we have lives to save and circumstances to set right!"

"We weren't gossiping, as you so crudely put it," Thala said. She couldn't stop from sounding imperious -- she really didn't like this man.

"Thala, please --"

"Doctor," Rose said, cutting in with a soothing interjection. She walked up to him and placed her hand gently on his forearm. When Thala turned away, she leaned in and whispered to him for a brief moment, saying only a few words. By the time the girl had turned back, Rose had already moved away and the puzzled expression had already melted off the Doctor's face.

-

"Where are we headed?"

"Ah . . . I have no idea. But that makes it all the more fun!"

Thala rolled her eyes. "Seriously."

"Why don't we go somewhere that neither I or Thala has been before?" Rose asked.

"I was actually thinking . . . "

"To China!" the Doctor shouted, his arms high in the air. The movement made his coat bunch up, but he seemed not to care and Rose didn't notify him, so Thala let it be. "Just kidding. Have you _seen_ the smog in Beijing?"

"As a matter of fact, I have," Thala muttered. She was about to say something else, but the TARDIS bucked, cutting her off as she was thrown to the floor.

"Blimey!" the Doctor shouted. "I didn't touch anything! And it's not even on!"

"Shut up, Captain Obvious! Everyone in here can see that the TARDIS is not functioning normally! If you use your brain, you might be able to tell that we are in fact being dragged!" Thala shouted, struggling to her feet.

"How did your father raise you? This is _abominable_!"

Thala spun around and raised her foot, swinging her hips and nailing the Doctor's solar plexus with a hard round kick. He fell with a gasp, punctuated by Rose's shout of, "You are an _idiot_!"

"I agree with Rose," Thala growled coldly. _Now stand up and do a scan. You're the only one who can, and frankly, you are a sad excuse for a Time Lord. You're the most unsavory character I have ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon. Get up!_

The Doctor glared at her, his eyes warning her -- a warning which she paid no attention to. _Don't ever do that to me again._

_I'll stop once you start being a civil person and quit criticizing my father. That's not a promise, by the way._

_I'm aware of that._


End file.
